My second postcard came just minutes ago. I have a sore throat so I've been just the teeniest bit aggrieved since waking. Did not feel like walking to the mail box. Felt worse when I finally reached it, opened it and saw nothing but the usual junk. The postman ticks me off when he folds my lovely magazines down the center. I hate that. Have I mentioned it before? I seem to live on Redundant Drive lately. . .
Oh! As I was saying, a postcard and a Christmas card were tucked inside the circulars. I smiled when I saw the postmarks! This one is from Portugal. His lovely card boasts a view of the Serra Da Estrela (Parque Natural, or Natural Park). It is the highest peak in Portugal. My first geography lesson about Portugal from a stranger. Very nice.
There's also a language lesson involved. It's easy, but I like it. I live in Estados Unidos Da America. Ain't that a lovely mouthful?
*****This was just discovered on one of my other blogs, obviously in the wrong place! It was published there on 12/21/2010. This is what I get for having too many blogs.
Here's another: Please Mr. Postman, published 1/27/2011
Serendipity strikes again! Serendipity does not wear a cape. It is not masked. And no, it doesn't come when it's asked. Serendipity just is. So, always be prepared. Have plenty of stamps on hand. Be prepared, people. Be prepared.
serendipity |ˌserənˈdipitē|nounthe occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way : a fortunate stroke of serendipity | a series of small serendipities.
This letter-writing thing is buzzing through my life like a bee in a bonnet. A letter I wrote last week to a friend in Colorado was returned today--stamped Return to Sender. I immediately thought of the returned Christmas card. The intended recipient had passed on a year and a half ago. I don't want to believe lightning strikes the same pen twice. Trying not to think about the possibility that Bill might have passed on as well, only depresses me.
I am nervous about calling to see if he's okay, because the phone number is at the same address I mailed the letter to. It stands to reason that if no mail is accepted there, then the phone has to be disconnected, too. Right? Calling and learning I'm right will only depress me more. Right? So, what else can a sister do, except sing, "Please Mr. Postman?"
Well, I did, and that's when I just read that Gladys Horton, a co-founder of the Marvelettes, and singer of "Please Mr. Postman" has passed on. She was 66. And in a nursing home! How sad is that?
The song was the first hit for Motown. Who knew? Dang! They sang "Beachwood 4-5789," too! I lip-synced that one at a school talent show at G. W. Carver Elementary School. Three of my classmates lip-synced the background vocals. I used to love that song! Was always wiggling my skinny hips when I sang it.
Singing . . . ". . . So, my number is Beachwood 4-5789. You can call me up and have a date any old time . . ." Alas! There goes another part of my girlhood.
Sorrow and sadness aside, Mr. Postman has been kind to me this week. Despite the letters that bear black arm bands, the post has brought me another lovely postcard from Poland. It also brought me a lovely, unique thank-you note from Quebec. You are so welcome, Gillian. Both the card and note card came on a day when I needed a bit of cheer. Unexpected is always the best kind. Right?
I like getting and sending mail. So, in honor of Ms Gladys Horton, sing along with me, "Please Mr. Postman, look and see if there's a letter or a card in your bag for me. The sooner the better . . ."
Now go and write to someone! And I bet they'll write you back. If they don't, just tell me and I will write to you myself.
This LimnerP.S. R.I.P. Gladys Horton.
Another: Illumination for Beauty's Sake, 7/27/2011
This is one of the most beautiful postcards I've had the pleasure of receiving. It came via Postcrossing. I wish I could read all that's written here. Everything about it touches the artist parts of me. It speaks to the calligrapher in me. It speaks to the parts of me that appreciate the thoughtfulness of the sender. And if I could pass on this piece of beauty, I would. I would pass it on to Amy Winehouse. I have missed her for a long time now. I guess I will go on missing her for even longer.
I wish the words on my postcard were about beauty, and life, and one-of-a-kindness, and one-of-a-kind-molds breaking after a single cast. If I could make it so, I would write it all down on this little card, address it to Amy Winehouse--address unknown, stick on a stamp, and mail it. Maybe then I could end my mourning for an artist whose songs embraced, and enticed me into embracing in return after the first notes she flung my way. She illuminated the world of music. Within her lay a part of the mystery of illumination.
Dang! There's more . . .